Watched the Day
by Moonlit Eyes
Summary: Draco didn't think about how they lived, or danced, or held each other. About the shirt he left and the note he wrote. Instead he just sat and watched the day pass by.


A/N: I don't know why I had such a strong urge to write this...

Watched the Day  
by Moonlit Eyes

* * *

A raindrop falls into his cup of hot tea mixed with something else, but he ignores it. Admitting that it was starting to sprinkle lightly would be admitting that he should go inside before it gets worse, and Draco Malfoy was nothing if not an expert at ignoring what he _should_ do for what he _wants_ to do. Just like he should have gone to the store and ran errands today, but it was his day off and sitting and dreaming on the fire escape of his flat was much more preferable.

He's watching the street two stories down with a detached feeling of wonder. How common he must appear, sitting halfway into the window of his small London flat and watching the day pass him by. Three years ago, when he'd moved into the space, he complained daily about the turn his life had taken. After the war, after the trials for war crimes, after the failure of his arranged marriage and fatherhood, Draco Malfoy ended up living on his own in a muggle flat with a regular job and a regular life. Once destined to be head of the more powerful family in Pureblood aristocracy, now damned to a life of common goals. Go to work. Pay the bills. Don't forget to pick up eggs and milk on the way home. Though, at first it had been hard to accept, he was willing to learn simply because he had...

Draco took a sip of his tea mixed with something else and ignored the way those thoughts were falling and watched the day pass him by. There was music flowing easily from the stereo inside. It surprised people how often he listened to muggle music. It downright shocked them when he would calmly explain that music is like nature and belongs truly to no one. It was simply there and must be appreciated for its beauty or lay to waste from being ignored. He never cared to learn about artists or there reasoning for writing and singing what they did. He simply listened to the instruments play and the voices give more meaning to lyrics than ink ever could. Sometimes he would close his eyes and sway softly to the song, losing himself to the song's tale. Previous lovers were often pulled into the gentle sway. Especially in his last relationship, Draco would smile and reach out to...

Draco rested his head against the window sill and cleared his mind and watched the day pass him by. His mother would have a fit if she was there to see him. He looked so downright plebian that he could just see the disapproving shake of her head. Though these days that was really the only way she could look at him. He didn't care at the moment though, he was comfortable. He wore a pair of black trousers with a pair of thick wool socks peeking out from the bottom. His hair was brushed back and out of his face without any care. The part that made him look so strangely, however, was the faded red flannel shirt that was obviously made for someone with broader shoulders. He had meant to wear a different shirt before stepping out that morning, but then he'd seen the red sleeve sticking out of the bottom of his closet. He had put it on without anymore thought, given up plans to leave, and went about preparing for a day of sitting with his tea. He told himself it was because he wanted to relax after a hard week and no one would see him anyway. He told himself it was because the shirt was so soft from being washed too many times that it was perfect for such a day. He told himself it wasn't because the second he saw it the will to do anything left him. That memories of a pair of arms covered in those sleeves still wrapped themselves around him and...

Draco glared at the sky that was now trying to rain harder. He slipped back inside, closed the window, and, safe inside the warmth of his flat, watched the day pass him by. He cup was empty now, but he didn't care enough to place it aside. He just leaned quietly against the glass, sighed softly, and drifted into sleep.

--

Draco was late in arriving home that day, but only by a half hour so he wasn't worried. If he hurried then they could still make their reservation. His excitement about actually having time to spend on a date that night was nearly overwhelming and he found himself nearly skipping up the stairs to their home. He unlocked the door with practiced ease and walked straight towards the bedroom.

"Sorry I'm late," he called out, "there was a small crisis before the day was done but I took care of it quickly. Are you ready to go?" He turned the corner to their room before noticing just how quiet it was. "Harry?" Draco checked the bathroom and wandered back into the front room. He glanced into the kitchenette and at the dinning table. There wasn't anyone there, nearly everything was in it's place. Then Draco saw it: A folded piece of paper next to an empty mug and pen with a red rose on top. He scanned the paper and everything after seemed to be a scene from a dream. Draco threw the rose across the room. Screamed and tore the paper. Fell to the ground when his energy seemed to deplete suddenly. Sat there and cried.

Or at least Draco thinks that's what happened. To be perfectly honest he couldn't quite remember his actions. All he truly remembers is the feeling of his throat tightening up upon seeing those phrases that began with things like, "this isn't," and, "we aren't," and "I can't." The feeling of his heart stopping cold upon getting to the part where, "you still love me and I'm sorry but it's no longer the same for me." The feeling of his eyes blurring and chest burning as he forgot to breath. The feeling of confusion as he tried to figure out where that awful keening sound was coming from. And then, the worst, the feeling of nothing, of emptiness, as he eyes dried out and hiccups shook him, and his body ached, and, "this isn't going anywhere, it has to stop.

"I hope that one day we can be friends. You've become important to me."

"What does that mean? I'm important? Obviously not enough to do this to my face, Harry." He had spoken to an empty apartment, his head resting against the cold wooden floor, and for the first time Draco didn't care how silly he looked as he fell asleep on the floor. He slept and slept and slept till he couldn't feel the need for tears anymore, and stood, swept the torn pieces of paper from the floor that had been his bed, and called into work sick for the first time in his life.

_--_

There was an indent forming on his forehead from where he had slid to halfway lean against the window sill. The empty cup had fallen from his fingers a while ago and had rolled away while the last bit of tea mixed with something else dripped onto the floor.

And Draco continued to lean against the glass as the day watched him pass by.

* * *

Wow...been a while since I wrote angst...hmmm.... Review, please.


End file.
